


Second That Emotion

by mrs_d, oh_no_oh_dear



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkwardness, Bar/Club, Brunch, Featuring Art!, Gender Issues, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hook-Up, M/M, Morning After, Non-Binary Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Birthday Bang, Single Dad Sam Wilson, Top Steve Rogers, Trans Sam Wilson, alcohol use, it's Sam's birthday and he deserves all the good things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-11-04 13:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_no_oh_dear/pseuds/oh_no_oh_dear
Summary: Sam enjoys a rare night of grown-up fun for his birthday — no screaming children, messy cake, or funny hats — and gets more than he bargained for in Steve.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been so blessed to have oh_no_oh_dear (aka VantaBlackCap) as my partner, and you can find more of their amazing art [here](www.vantablackcap.tumblr.com)! Check them out and give them some love, because they are awesome!!
> 
> Huge thank yous go to oh_no_oh_dear (of course!) and the entire mod team for the SWBB. Happy Samtember!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VantaBlackCap's amazing art for this chapter is also visible [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156880923@N02/48785094366/). Enjoy!!

It’s hot in the club — literally. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if it’s hotter in here than it is outside, and that’s saying something, because it may be late September, but it feels more like July.

Even the bar’s back patio is open. Misty, knowing that Sam’s a little uncomfortable with crowds, suggested they check it out, but apparently that was a popular idea, because it’s wall-to-wall out there, packed with partygoers desperate to soak up the last traces of warm summer air.

In here, dancers sway to the pounding beat with only inches to spare; many leave far less between their bodies. The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and alcohol — that peculiar empty-bottle smell that seems to permeate every bar that Sam’s ever been to. It’s not unpleasant — in fact, it takes him back to those nights when he and Riley would go out when Riley was on leave. They’d drink, and they’d dance, and they’d fuck the way people do when they’re 22 without a care in the world.

But those days are behind him now, a fact he’s reminded of when he looks around the room. Everyone here seems painfully young, and achingly beautiful. Guys in leather pants shake their asses, glitter glinting in their beards; femmes in stilettos and ruby red lipstick toss their hair around for their butch partners; and drag queens tower over the rest of the dance floor like monuments to perfect hair. 

In comparison, Sam feels old and underdressed. His black jeans are snug in the humidity, and his damp t-shirt clings to the small of his back. A few people, walking by, look twice at him — he catches the up-and-down of being checked out and then instantly dismissed. It doesn’t bother him, but if he’d known that he would be coming here, he would have worn something nicer.

The bar was Colleen’s idea. A birthday dinner was enough for Sam — getting eight friends together in one place when you’re all in your thirties is practically a miracle, after all. Luke and Claire, and Foggy and Karen took off right after — like Sam, Luke and Claire have a kid at home, and Foggy and Karen have Matt, who’s almost as bad. Danny came with them to the bar, but he disappeared after only one drink. Danny prefers bars where he can actually talk to people, and Sam can’t blame him for that. In fact, he almost suggested another place, but Colleen wanted to go dancing, and Misty got a look on her face that was not unlike the one she got when they were at the store and Sam’s daughter asked for a treat; there was no way Misty could deny either of them.

Sam picks up his beer, tilts the rest of its almost-warm contents into his mouth, and swallows. Misty and Colleen are on the dance floor, somewhere, but he doesn’t feel like joining them yet, so he flags down the bartender. 

It’s too loud to talk — Sam swears he sees the liquor in the bottles behind the bar rippling like the coffee in _ Jurassic Park _— so he points at his empty bottle and flashes a bill instead. It’s an easy, wordless exchange: the bartender grabs him a new one from the fridge and cracks it open. Sam holds up a hand when she tries to give him his change. She nods gratefully, pockets the money, and shifts her attention to the next customer.

With his fresh beer sweating in his hand, Sam swivels on the bar stool, content to people watch a little longer. At the opposite end of the room, fog is hissing out of the machines by the DJ booth. Sam can taste it when he breathes in, a chemical sweetness that catches in his throat. Overhead, the spinning lights have been transformed into narrow, colorful beams as the dance floor becomes wreathed in smoke.

The DJ makes a garbled announcement. The crowd cheers. Over the noise, Sam hears the song change — the low-thumping rhythm melds with a different one that gradually takes over. The new song is faster, almost frenetic to Sam’s ears. Another cheer rolls through the room like a wave as they recognize it.

Sam doesn’t recognize it, but he likes it. He nods to the beat and taps his toe on the leg of the bar stool. He drinks his beer and thinks back to those days when he used to visit places like this — before he got married, before he got pregnant. When he was still trying so hard to be a girl. The effort took a lot out of him, and he almost never went home with anyone, because it was so goddamn much work, and too often the payout just wasn’t worth it.

_ Sex with straight cis men, _ he thinks, surveying the crowd. _ Never again. _

His eyes land on a short, slender person — white, good-looking, with an androgynous vibe that makes them hard to gender. Not that Sam minds; his bisexuality includes lots of room for variation. Sam would maybe call them a twink, based on their size, but they’re too punk for that, really. They’ve got a white-blonde undercut and tattoos showing along their arms and shoulders. Their jeans are torn, their sneakers are scuffed, and their fingernails are painted.

The punk catches Sam looking and sends him a smile. It’s flirtatious and intentional — not like the others who checked him out. Sam feels his heart trip as he smiles back. They hold eye contact for just another second before the punk’s friend taps them on the shoulder, and they turn away, drawn into a conversation.

Sam drinks some more of his beer and thinks — it’s been a while, but he remembers some of the steps to this dance. The punk might be interested in hooking up, they might not. But if they were — if anybody looked at him like that — would Sam be interested back? 

He’s honestly not sure. He hasn’t had sex with another person in years. Not since that time he tried dating a guy when Elise was still in preschool. He’d only just started to transition then, and the guy said he was fine with it — he “liked masculine women.” Sam kept him around for a while, even after that, because the sex was amazing and he was lonely, but when he ended it, he decided to quit dating for a while. With his kid, his transition, and his lingering grief for the father his daughter would never remember, Sam just had too many things in his life to try to shoehorn a relationship in, too. 

_ Hooking up isn’t a relationship, _a tiny voice inside reminds him. And Sarah had specifically told him, when she picked Elise up for the weekend last night, that he deserved to go out and have some grown-up fun — no screaming children, messy cake, or funny hats allowed.

Sam eyes the punk and wonders. 

He sets aside the logistics, the worries, the necessities of reality, and lets the fantasy unspool for a moment. He sees himself crossing the room. Talking, dancing, kissing. He wonders what the punk looks like naked, where their tattoos start and stop. He wonders what they like, how they like it. He wonders what sounds they make when they’re about to come. 

Sam swallows hard and gives himself a mental shake. All that from one look? One smile? It’s clearly been too long since he had sex, and the alcohol has loosened him up just enough to feel it. 

While he’s still chastising himself, Misty and Colleen thread their way through the fog to meet him. Sam waves them over, and Colleen leans close. She smells strongly of white rum. 

“Shots?” she says into his ear.

Sam laughs in surprise and looks to Misty, but she just shrugs — no help there. Misty might be the same age as Sam, but she’s at least as young as her 28-year-old girlfriend at heart.

Sam shrugs too, throwing caution to the wind. “Why not?” he hollers back. It is his birthday, after all.

Colleen whoops and leads the way back to the bar. She buys him a shot of tequila, which Sam is sure to regret in the morning, but he’s grinning, too. 

“Don’t look now,” Misty yell-talks, “but that guy over there is totally checking you out.”

Sam whips around like he’s desperate to find this mystery man.

Misty whacks his arm lightly. “I told you not to look!”

Sam laughs — he can always get a rise out of her. He licks his hand, shakes some salt onto it, and passes the shaker on. Colleen and Misty do the same, and when they’re ready, they raise their glasses together.

“To the birthday boy!” Colleen yells, and they drink.

Nothing in the world tastes like tequila, Sam thinks, and given that it’s probably been ten years since he drank some, he can't tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It burns his throat, and he shoves the lemon wedge into his mouth right away. 

“Definitely gonna regret that tomorrow,” he tells Misty, who shrugs.

“YOLO,” she enunciates seriously in Sam’s right ear.

Sam bursts out laughing — he’s suddenly almost giddy — and he's still laughing a minute later when Colleen grabs his hand and drags him to the dance floor.

The music has changed again. Sam recognizes the strains of Lady Gaga woven into the complicated club beat. He swings into motion, riding the rhythm, losing himself in the music, watching the weird shadows cast by the colored lights. Misty’s jewelry flames gold and red; Colleen’s black hair glints with a greenish shimmer. His own hands, he realizes after a moment, are blue like deep water. 

Misty shimmies into his line of sight. “You having fun?” she asks.

Sam nods, because — somewhat to his own surprise — he really is.

“Good,” she answers, and then she nods at something behind him.

Sam turns, catches sight of the punk again. He does the checking out this time, and when they catch him looking, he smiles, trying as hard as he can to be flirty about it. He thinks he pulls it off, but he also knows that tequila can make him feel a lot more confident than he ought to. 

Still, the punk smiles back, and their eyes drop to Sam’s ass when he half-turns to show it off intentionally. 

“That’s the guy,” Misty shouts in Sam’s ear, startling him. “He was checking you out at the bar!”

“She’s hot,” Colleen chimes in on Sam’s other side. Sam’s not sure if she heard anything her girlfriend just said, but it probably doesn’t matter. “You should go talk to her.”

Talking isn’t really possible at this volume, but when Misty nudges him, Sam goes, and it may just be his imagination, but he thinks the punk is moving towards him, too. 

Together they carve out a tiny empty space in the midst of the crowd, and the punk grins. “Finally,” they half-shout. “I thought you’d never come over here.”

Sam laughs. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

The punk shakes their head, then turns, so their right ear is in front of Sam. “Say again?”

Sam repeats his comment, and the punk laughs more than Sam thinks he deserves. “Well, come on, then,” they say. “Let’s see if you can win this.”

A zing of something — desire? arousal? he isn’t sure — ripples through Sam. His heart thumps behind his ribs, out of pace with the heavy, sexy beat of the song that’s pounding in his ears. 

The punk starts to sway to the rhythm, and Sam checks them out some more. They’re skinny, but their tattooed arms are toned, and there are lines in their face that tell him that they’re older than they may first appear. They’re close enough now that Sam can smell them, too — and they smell good; earthy and clean, with just enough sweat to notice.

Sam likes it.

The song changes again — a dance remix of Whitney Houston this time — and Sam feels the rhythm start to take over, pulling his body into motion. There’s no room for fancy maneuvers, but Sam apparently doesn’t need them to keep the punk’s attention; they're inching a little closer to Sam with every step, the edges of their body bumping into his like it’s an accident.

The touch is like a low-banked fire — subtle but hot, with the risk of flaring up if someone gave it a good stir. Sam’s still not sure he wants to follow through, but it’s enjoyable, just to be seen and wanted like this, even if it goes nowhere.

Then the punk touches him intentionally, and Sam feels that zing again. He leans into the contact without really meaning to — it’s an intimate thing, to be touched on the hip, and Sam honestly thinks that the last person to do so was Riley. He shivers, but the guilty grief is quick, passing over him like a summer shower. He lost his husband almost seven years ago; the pain that used to be his entire universe is now just one small corner of his heart. The rest of it, he thinks as the punk lays their hand flat against Sam’s side, is his.

With that in mind, Sam hesitantly reaches out. His hand lands near the edge of the punk’s t-shirt; the top of their jeans is a lump beneath his palm. Sam is startled by how well his hand fits there, how easily he’s able to pull them nearer. He and the punk are moving together, still with a gap between them, but Sam’s feeling his body and the punk’s align — he moves forward, they move back. Smooth and easy. 

Then someone clumsy bumps into the punk from behind, knocking them forward. Sam catches them on instinct — and now they’re in his arms, the gap between them is much smaller.

And the punk is really, really pretty up close. Sam’s fairly certain they’re wearing eyeliner.

“Hi,” he manages. 

“Hi,” says the punk, and they kiss him — just once, quick and light, too fast for Sam to react. 

“Sorry,” they say, squirming out of Sam’s grasp. “I just had to know if you’d let me.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says. It’s automatic; his body is buzzing, and his brain isn’t really working right. “It’s good.”

The punk grins. There’s a gleam in the their eyes — a challenge, a dare. Like they’re ready to lead Sam into trouble, and, maybe it’s the tequila, but Sam can’t think of a single reason not to follow. 

So when the punk starts to dance again, Sam dances with them. Their bodies align once more, only with barely any gap this time. Over the speakers, a sultry voice sings drawn-out phrases about being young forever in the summer, which feels right for night like this. Sam closes his eyes for a moment and just moves, letting himself be transported for a little while.

He’s startled out it when the punk pulls away. Sam catches another glint in their eyes right before they turn in his arms and start grinding against him. 

Sam’s breath catches, though whether it’s due to arousal or fear he isn’t sure. Maybe it’s both. Because even as the punk’s closeness is riling him up, making his skin sing, he wonders: can the punk feel his packer? Will they realize, even through their clothes, that Sam’s not like other guys? Because he’s definitely getting turned on — the packer is mildly uncomfortable, its friction is a frustrating tease — but he worries because the punk can’t tell he’s enjoying it.

A little overwhelmed by the feeling and the thoughts that it’s evoking, Sam pulls back and tugs on one side of the punk’s hips, so they turn again. When they do, Sam can’t help but notice a slight bulge in their jeans. Are they hard, he wonders. Or do they have a packer too, and it’s slightly out of the place, the way his is right now? 

The punk smirks at Sam’s look and ducks into his space again, their lips colliding with Sam’s. This time, Sam doesn’t let them pull away so fast — he hangs on, keeps the punk near, and kisses back. 

He’s rusty — it’s been ages since he did this — but it comes back when the punk slips their tongue against Sam’s lips and Sam opens to them. The metal of the punk’s lip ring is a new sensation that Sam’s mind seizes — he immediately imagines it touching other parts of his body — but he keeps his focus, stays in the moment, and lets himself be kissed, even as they continue to move to the music. 

Then someone shouts something behind him. It’s not directed at them, but it’s startling enough to bust Sam out of his reverie and remind him that they’re not alone — and that he doesn’t even know the punk’s name. 

“Come on,” he says into the punk’s right ear, and he pulls back, keeping his grip on their hand to lead them through the club. 

In the sea of people, he spots Misty and Colleen. It’s been almost a decade since Sam smoked, but he mimes a cigarette with two fingers at his lips to tell them where he’s going. Misty scowls — she hated it when Sam smoked — but Colleen eyes the punk and gives him a corny thumbs-up.

They step outside into the not-much-cooler air, Sam’s ears fuzzy at the lack of noise. His feet hurt, too, so he jerks his head to the side, where there’s an appealingly empty patch of pavement near the curb. 

“Wanna?” he asks.

“Sure,” says the punk, and they sit. “So,” they say, with a wry sideways look. “Your friends seem nice.”

Sam groans, embarrassed. “I was hoping you didn’t see that. They’re only trying to help.”

The punk chuckles. “No, I mean it. They’re cool.”

“They are,” Sam agrees. He takes in a breath of city night air, and holds out his hand. “I’m Sam,” he says. 

The punk gives him a look — maybe it’s a little weird to shake hands when they were just kissing in the club — but they shake Sam’s hand anyway. 

“Steve,” they tell him. They bump shoulders with Sam in a friendly gesture. “So, you come here often?”

Sam huffs out a laugh at the cheesy line and shakes his head. “No, never,” he says honestly. “Last time I hit the club scene, this place didn’t even exist.”

“So what’s the occasion?” Steve asks.

For some reason, he doesn’t want to tell Steve that it’s his birthday. Maybe he’s afraid that Steve will feel obligated to keep hanging out with him, maybe he just doesn’t want a fuss. Either way, he shrugs.

“Friends wanted a night out,” he says. It’s mostly the truth. “You?”

“New in town,” Steve replies. “Or— well, first time back in a long time. I was born in Brooklyn, spent the last few years down in DC.”

“Cool,” says Sam. “What made you come back?”

Steve shrugs. “Home is home, you know?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I get that.”

Steve shifts nearer, their hand landing on Sam’s thigh. “I’m glad you came tonight,” they say, with a slight squeeze. “You looked damn good out there.”

Sam’s blushing again, though he doubts Steve can tell. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he deflects.

“I don’t know about that,” says Steve. Their smile widens — they have a beautiful smile, full of straight white teeth. 

Sam tells them this, and it’s their turn to blush.

“My dad’s an orthodontist,” they explain. Sam raises his eyebrows at the revelation — because that speaks to a level of wealth and privilege that he wasn’t expecting.

Before he can say anything, Steve leans closer. “I waited till he was done with my braces before I came out as a bisexual genderqueer socialist,” they say with the air of someone spilling secrets.

“Smart,” Sam says, in a tone that acknowledges the darker implications of what Steve’s telling him. He hopes it comes across okay. “Seems like there’s a story there,” he adds.

Steve nods. Their smile is flirty now, almost sly, no teeth showing. “There is. Maybe someday you’ll hear it.”

Steve leans back, and Sam catches another whiff of their earthy scent. _ Maybe, _ he thinks again, though he’s not sure if it’s in reference to learning more about Steve or to taking Steve home. There’s a good chance it’s both.

Steve glances around the street, even as their hand is still on Sam’s leg, making him sweat through his jeans. He watches Steve and notices that they have an Adam’s apple. It bobs when they swallow. In the weird contrast of the streetlights, Steve’s skin seems to shimmer. After a second, Sam realizes that he’s looking at sweat. When was the last time he was close enough to someone to see their sweat?

One bead rolls down the line of Steve’s throat, and Sam suddenly wants to lick it up.

He inhales a little sharply at the thought, drawing Steve’s attention. Steve catches him looking, and their lips twitch upwards again.

“Something on my face?” they drawl.

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t do this very often,” he admits.

“This?” Steve repeats.

“You know,” Sam says. He waves a hand between them. “This.”

“Oh,” says Steve. “Yeah, me neither. Not a lot of guys want me when I tell them I’m not a twink, and the girls lose interest when they find out I’m not a lesbian, so...”

Sam nods, but Steve is looking at him uncertainly now. “That’s not gonna be a problem, is it?”

“No,” Sam reassures them firmly. “No, I’m not looking for a twink or a lesbian.”

“So what are you looking for?” Steve asks.

“I’m trans,” Sam says, which surprises himself. It’s not an answer to Steve’s question, and it’s not what he meant to say, but it comes out — he comes out — anyway. 

“Oh,” says Steve. They nod. “Cool.”

Sam waits, but that seems to be it for Steve’s reaction. A drunk guy wanders over, taps Steve on the shoulder and asks if they can sell him a cigarette. Steve tells him that they don’t smoke. 

“So,” Sam says, once the guy’s gone off to pester someone else. 

“So,” Steve repeats— and, wow, they’re looking flirty again. “You wanna head back in, dance some more?”

Sam blinks. Is Steve really not gonna say anything about it?

“Or,” Steve continues. They’ve closed the gap between them again — their hand is tight on Sam’s thigh again. “Maybe we could get out of here, go somewhere quieter?”

Sam’s body reacts with a small shiver of want, but he forces his brain to work.

He edges back, removes Steve’s hand. “It doesn’t bother you?” he says. 

He winces internally; that’s not really the right way of saying that, but Steve doesn’t laugh or call him out, or even really react at all. They don’t insult Sam’s intelligence by over-performing nonchalance, which is what some people have done when he’s come out to them — _ No big deal, why should I care what’s in your pants? _ — and they don’t do the opposite, either, where they care too much, to the point that Sam can tell he’s being festishized. 

Instead, they look directly into Sam’s eyes. Maybe they know a little of what Sam’s been through. Maybe they know that what he’s really asking is, _ Are you safe? Can I trust you? _

“It doesn’t bother me,” they say, quiet and serious. “It doesn’t bother me one bit.” 

“Oh,” says Sam, relieved but now faced with the awkward necessity of having to take the next step. He repositions himself on the concrete; his ass is going numb, sitting on the curb like this, like teenagers perched on the railroad tracks, waiting for the daring rush of a train headlight in the distance. 

Steve seems to sense his hesitation and backs off more, puts more distance between them. “We don’t have to do anything,” they say. They smile in a self-deprecating manner. “I’ve been told that I move kinda fast, so if you don’t want to, or if you’d rather take things slower... I— I won’t be offended.”

“No,” says Sam, too soon. Again, it wasn’t really what he meant to say. But the word flies out before he can stop it, and when it does, he realizes that it’s true. 

He doesn’t want to stop; he doesn’t even really want to slow down. His body is thrumming with attraction, buzzing like a charge under his skin. It’s been years since he felt this — or maybe he’s never felt this, at least not so soon after meeting someone — and he wants to chase the feeling a little longer. Chase the adrenaline and see where it takes him. 

“I don’t usually do this,” he says again, putting his hand on Steve’s leg this time, “but I want to. I want to,” he repeats, “if you do.”

Steve drags their eyes down Sam’s body. For a long second, the buzz that Sam’s feeling intensifies, laced with a familiar anxiety. He worries that Steve can see right through him, to the girl he used to be but also never was. 

Then Steve smiles, and it fades. “I want to,” they say.

“Okay,” says Sam. He watches, slightly dazed, as Steve gets to their feet. They offer Sam a hand up, and he takes it. 

But when Steve raises their arm to hail a cab, Sam stops them. 

“My friends,” he explains when Steve sends him a puzzled look. “I should let them know I’m leaving.”

“Right,” says Steve with a nod. “Just in case I’m a serial killer.”

Sam chuckles. “I wasn’t gonna say it, but…”

Steve laughs outright and leads them back to the club. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: this chapter contains penis-in-vagina sex, though Sam doesn't think of it in those terms. He struggles a bit with memories of having sex with partners who viewed him as a woman, so there's some discomfort/dysphoria there. He also uses the term "dick" to refer to what others may call their "clit". He and Steve do not use a prosthetic device (though Sam considers it); this is a decision I made based on my understanding of what I thought Sam's headspace would be like in this moment. 
> 
> The choices made here are my own, and are not meant to be indicative of the trans experience.

Stepping inside feels like walking into a sauna, except that it smells like booze and too many people crammed into too small a space. The humidity after the slight breeze of being on the street shocks Sam, and the sound — the driving beat that he’d become acclimatized to, is now an assault on his ears. Anxious to get out of here, he hangs on to Steve’s hand and cuts a path through the throng of customers waiting at the bar. Thankfully, he spots a familiar head of curls within minutes. 

He taps Misty on the shoulder, and when she turns, her eyes go wide. She looks at Steve, then down at his and Steve’s joined hands, then back at Sam again. 

“We’re gonna go,” Sam shouts over the music. 

Misty nods and opens her arms. When Sam steps in close for a hug, Misty says in his ear, “You’re good, right? He’s good?”

“Yeah,” Sam reassures her. “They’re good, and so am I.”

“Okay.” Misty lets go, but she doesn’t let him get too far away. “Call me if you need anything. _ Anything.” _

“I will,” Sam promises. “Thanks.” He glances around. “Where’s Colleen?”

Misty rolls her eyes. “Bathroom. Some jerk spilled his beer on her.”

Sam makes a face. “She okay? You okay?” he asks, echoing Misty.

“Yeah, we’re good.” Misty punches his arm lightly. “Now go get laid already.”

Sam grins, even as his face heats up. He hopes Steve didn’t hear that.

They give no indication that they did, staying close behind him the whole way out, still gripping Sam’s hand. 

“Is there anyone you should see?” Sam asks when they’re outside again. He feels guilty and embarrassed for not having thought of it sooner.

“Nah, I texted,” Steve replies. “They knew there was a chance I’d hook up with somebody, so it’s not like it’s unexpected. Besides, I don’t think you’re a serial killer.”

“You never know, though,” Sam chuckles.

When they get to the curb, a cab is already waiting, one of a few already there, obviously waiting for the clubs on this block to start closing down.

“No, I know,” Steve replies. It takes Sam a second to catch up, to realize that Steve’s responding seriously his joke about possibly being a serial killer. “I read people pretty well,” they add, as the two of them climb into the back seat. 

“Yeah? What’d you read about me?” Sam asks. He’s curious. Steve could have chosen a lot of people to go home with, after all, and they chose him. 

Steve just smiles. It’s hard to tell in the muted glare of the streetlights, but Sam thinks their cheeks are turning pink. 

“Where we going?” the driver asks. 

Sam gives his address automatically, then turns to Steve. “Unless—”

“No, it’s good,” Steve replies. “My place is a mess, you don’t want to go there.”

“Mine is, too,” Sam admits, because it’s hard to have a kid and a clean house at the same time.

The thought gives him pause. Should he say something about having a kid? It’s not like Elise is home — and Sam’s definitely not looking for a co-parent. But Steve’s gonna know as soon as they walk in the door… will they be upset if Sam doesn’t tell them?

Steve takes Sam’s silence as an invitation, and they lean in close to press a kiss against Sam’s lips. Welcoming the distraction from his worry, Sam kisses them back, and one shallow kiss becomes another, and then another. Steve’s cautious tongue draws Sam in deeper, setting off a little zing of anticipation. It feels so good, he’s drunk on it — is he drunk, too? From a distance, Sam assesses himself and counts back. He only had two beers and a shot, he’s fine. 

He’s better than fine, actually, he’s great. Because Steve’s hand is now on his lower back. Steve rubs at the top of his jeans, loosening the tucked-in shirt until they’ve created a gap between his pants and shirt. It’s tiny, the barest notion of skin on skin, but Sam inhales sharply. It’s like being touched for the first time. He reacts on instinct and pulls Steve closer, as close as he can with both their seatbelts still on, and kisses deeper, harder. 

The cab comes to a halt, and they break apart. Steve shakes their head as if to clear it. They hand the driver some cash and open the door. Sam follows them out of the car, and abruptly realizes that he forgot to make a decision on whether or not he was going to tell Steve about Elise. 

“Can you wait here, just for a minute?” he asks the driver, who nods, still counting the bills that Steve gave him. 

“Steve,” Sam calls. 

Steve turns back. “Yeah?”

Sam shuffles his feet, awkward. He draws a breath and shoves the words out all at once. “I have a kid.”

Steve blinks, but other than that, they don’t react. “She’s not here,” Sam goes on. “She’s at my sister’s for the weekend, but I just wanted you to know before going in. In case— I don’t know, in case it mattered.” 

Steve huffs out a laugh. “You mean in case I wanted to bail?” 

“Well,” Sam stutters. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame— I’m not asking you to— There’s no obligation,” he says finally.

“I know,” says Steve. “Thanks for telling me.”

They wave at the cab driver, who nods and pulls away. Sam supposes that’s his answer about whether or not his having a kid matters. Something low and urgent twists in his gut. It’s real now — they’re definitely going to have sex now, and soon.

He swallows hard and tries to focus. At this rate, he won’t even get them inside. 

So he offers his hand to Steve again, grounding himself in the tiny touch, and starts leading him up the walkway to the little townhouse that he and his husband bought right before Riley’s second tour, when Sam had just found out he was pregnant.

“Also,” Sam adds, a few steps along the way, “I didn’t want you to think I’m some weirdo who collects Barbies.”

Steve laughs and squeezes his hand. “Don’t worry,” they tell him. “You’re not gonna scare me off. You can quit trying.”

Sam’s gut twists again, his mouth goes dry. “Okay,” he manages.

He fumbles twice getting his keys out of pocket, but the third time’s the charm, and the door opens. He’d left the foyer light on when he left earlier, so the jumble of shoes spilling out of the closet is immediately visible. He winces. “Sorry, I—”

“You have a really nice place,” Steve observes, like maybe they didn’t hear him. 

“Thanks,” Sam replies. He kicks off his sneakers, adding them to the pile, and locks the door behind them. “You want a tour?” he asks, and then he realizes how dumb that question is. 

Steve, though, steps into Sam’s space, bringing with them that scent that’s almost familiar by now. “Maybe just to the bedroom?” they suggest, flirtatious to the point that Sam can tell he’s being razzed. 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Little bit,” Steve laughs. Sam watches their eyes travel the room, from the toybox in the corner of the living room with way too many Barbie heads poking out, to the shelf crammed full of Elise’s books, to the row of kids’ DVDs under the coffee table. Almost of all them are science-related, he realizes, and he wonders how that looks to an outsider. 

“How old is your kid?” Steve asks. 

“Eight,” Sam replies. He’s smiling without trying to now, because that’s just what happens when he talks about his little girl. “Her name is Elise.”

“That’s lovely,” says Steve, and though it could be dismissive — something that someone might say to shut Sam up — it sounds like they really mean it, and Sam appreciates that. 

“So, do you want some coffee?” Sam asks, breaking the silence. Apparently, he can’t help but try to be a good host. “Or water, or…?”

Steve’s smile changes into something less innocent, but they say, “You’re so cute,” while grabbing a handful of Sam’s shirt. 

They pull, drawing Sam in — their lips land on his, and it’s crazy, but that feels familiar, too, almost like they belong there. 

Steve spins them and starts walking, urging Sam backwards. This is a kind of dance, too — moving in tandem like a meandering tango, all while Steve’s tongue is in his mouth and Steve’s lip ring keeps getting maddeningly in the way. They stop at the bottom of the stairs, and Steve pulls their mouth away, breathless and wild-eyed. 

“I don’t know where I’m going,” they admit. 

Sam laughs and takes a step up. “This way,” he says. 

It’s hard to walk backwards up the stairs, so Sam turns around. When he starts to climb, he hears Steve make a small, appreciative noise. Sam grins, his cheeks flushed, and if he sways his ass a little more than is necessary on his way up, well, that’s his business. 

At the top of the stairs, though, it becomes Steve’s business, because Sam feels their fingers slip into his back pocket as he leads them past Elise’s bedroom and the bathroom, to Sam’s room at the end of the hall. 

“Do you have any idea how well these jeans fit you?” Steve asks, removing their hand from Sam’s pocket a little reluctantly when Sam closes the door behind them. 

“No,” Sam says smugly. He steps forward. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Steve grins, that challenging light in their eyes again. They grab his ass in an almost-too-tight grip and knead, massaging him through his pants. The sensation unleashes a flood of memories — this used to be his favorite thing before sex. Riley would massage him all over and knead the tension out of his ass until Sam was putty in his hands. Sam closes his eyes, feeling something inside him loosen up the way it used to, and nudges Steve’s mouth back up to his. 

Sam’s kisses are sloppy and uncoordinated, but he doesn’t care. Steve’s definitely hard now, rutting against Sam’s thigh. The heat of Steve’s arousal turns Sam on more — more than he would have thought possible when he was wondering if he could take somebody home earlier.

Steve shoves forward, suddenly, and now they’ve got Sam back against the wall. Their hands leave his ass and come around to fumble with the zipper of his jeans. Sam hears himself whimper when Steve gets his hand inside his underwear, trapped under the weight of his packer, just a hairsbreadth away from his dick.

Steve breaks the kiss, pulls their hand back out, and looks up. “This okay?” they ask. “Too fast?”

Sam shakes his head. It is too fast, but slowing down now would be like stopping the rollercoaster before it even gets to the top of the first hill. “It’s good,” he manages.

“Okay,” Steve replies, and they put their fingers in their mouth. They pull his underwear away from his belly with their free hand, and slip their wet fingers inside.

Sam’s breath goes shaky at the touch of a hand that’s not his own. Steve fondles his dick delicately, getting a feel for the shape of it, all the while watching Sam’s face. It’s silent in the room aside from their irregular breath, and the intensity is almost too much. Sam closes his eyes. 

He wants this so badly — he wants to come with Steve’s mouth on his, with Steve’s scent all around him, with Steve’s hand in his pants. He prays to the gods of sex that his body can make it happen — that tonight, of all nights, it won’t decide to leave him hanging the way that his hormones sometimes do.

Steve presses a kiss to the side of Sam’s neck. “Tell me if I do something you don’t like,” they say into his skin. 

Sam nods, and Steve’s fingers start moving in earnest, hard and quick, unhesitating. Sam’s arousal ratchets up a notch— or ten. How does Steve know that this is now he likes to be touched — how he needs to be touched? Anything soft or teasing just makes him itch. He wonders if Steve has done this before, with another trans guy. He wonders if Steve picked him up at a bar, or if they were lovers. 

These thoughts flicker through him like a rock skipping over water — just a few hops before Sam is sinking. Because Steve’s got their fingers wetter somehow, and the feeling— Sam’s rocking his hips, arching into the touch, groaning and moaning in a way that he forgot was possible. He forgot it was possible for it to feel this good, this overwhelming, this— 

“Steve,” he gasps. Steve stops at once. “I’m gonna come in my pants if you keep that up.”

Steve blinks. “Is that a problem?”

Sam thinks for a second, as best he can with the lust fogging his brain. “No,” he says, realizing it’s true. “No, it’s— as long as it’s not a problem for you.”

Steve gives him a sweet smile, but their fingers start moving in a way that’s truly wicked. “Now why would that be a problem for me?” they breathe, but they kiss him before he can answer. 

They keep kissing him until he comes. It’s so sudden and quick, he’s not prepared. The orgasm blows his knees apart, jerks his hips upward, shoving his dick up into Steve’s touch. He shudders and shakes through it, wrenching his face away to draw breath, clinging to Steve’s side because he thinks he might fall over.

Steve gentles their touch as Sam starts to come down, and when Sam twitches with overstimulation, they withdraw their hand completely. Sam sags against the wall — now he feels drunk: dizzy, light-headed, exhausted. He swears he’s seeing spots, in the few seconds that he manages to look before closing his eyes again. 

“That,” Steve proclaims, “was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, and then he frowns, because he doesn’t know if that’s a good way to respond to that. He doesn’t even know if he knows which way is up right now. 

Steve huffs a quiet laugh against Sam’s shoulder. Their hands are massaging Steve’s ass while their cock rubs against his rumpled pant leg. Sam pulls himself together and kisses them. He pushes off the wall and walks Steve back to the bed, nudges until they sit.

“How did you know how to do that?” he asks, while he goes to the nightstand to turn on the lamp.

Steve gives him that flirtatious smile again. Sam’s really starting to like it. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” they tell him. 

“Oh yeah?” says Sam. It’s what he expected, but now’s not the time to ask about previous partners — Steve’s erection is starting to look painful in those skinny jeans. 

“Yeah,” Steve echoes, watching Sam walk back to the doorway to hit the switch for the overhead light. “And if you’ve got a strap-on handy, I could show you how I ride.”

The words send a shimmer of lust through Sam, subdued now that he’s come, but it’s there nonetheless. He does have a strap-on handy, in the locked bottom drawer of his nightstand. He pictures it — the trust and patience required to open Steve up, Steve’s perfect teeth biting their bottom lip as he enters them, the noises they would make as Sam thrusts into their body — and for a second he almost says yes. 

But the logistics of it make him think twice. There’s no way to put on a harness that isn’t awkward, plus the actual act of intercourse, face-to-face? As close as he’s gotten to Steve tonight, he just doesn’t feel ready for that. 

“I think I’d rather you top,” he says quickly, hoping it’s not too much of a disappointment. 

Steve, however, doesn’t look disappointed at all. “Yeah,” they say again. “I can do that. Come here.”

Sam goes, slotting himself between Steve’s knees, and bends to give them another kiss. Now that the edge of arousal has dulled somewhat, Sam feels more relaxed, slipping into Steve’s lips like a warm bath. He wants to touch — and he remembers he can. He reaches for the hem of Steve’s t-shirt and slips his hands up, brushing the warm skin below. He tugs, and Steve pulls back, yanks the shirt over their head with one smooth motion. Finally, Sam can see their tattoos in their entirety, but there’s no time to look, because Steve is kissing him again. 

After a moment, Sam remembers that there’s another reason he walked over here. He steps back — Steve’s mouth tries to follow him, which is hot and sweet — but he’s undeterred, heading back to the nightstand. He opens the top drawer and takes out the small silver key that’ll open the other drawer. 

“Do you have condoms?” Steve asks, sitting up. 

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Sam replies. He got a handful at Pride a few months ago, and, for some reason that he couldn’t name, he kept them. He checks the expiry dates just in case, but they’re good. He grabs his lube, too, and goes back to the bed.

Steve’s looking up at him expectantly, and Sam remembers that he’s going to have to get naked. He pulls his shirt off before he can think too much about it. As he climbs back onto the bed, Steve doesn’t stare at his scars or make any comment about his chest. They just make room, shifting back until their head is on Sam’s pillow. 

Something about that image sets off happy sparks in Sam’s mind, but Steve is already undoing their belt. Sam gives them a hand, tugging at the tight denim until it’s around Steve’s ankles, and, laughing, they kick the pants off. 

Now Steve’s naked below him, their slender cock sticking straight up. Sam ducks down and licks the tip, and Steve jolts. 

“Tell me if I do something you don’t like,” Sam tells them, repeating Steve’s words from before. 

It’s been years since he’s done this, too, but once the heady taste of Steve’s arousal is on his tongue, it comes back to him, and he pulls the head of Steve’s cock into his mouth. 

“Oh, God,” Steve whispers. “Oh, that’s— that’s—”

They don’t finish their sentence, but Sam gets the gist. He takes Steve a little deeper and sucks — just once, before Steve’s hand is on Sam’s cheek and pushing him away. 

“Too much,” they murmur. “I’d rather— I mean, if you still want me to—”

“Yeah,” Sam says, because he does — he wants that quite a lot, actually.

“Okay,” Steve replies. Their hands slide up and down Sam’s sides. “So how do you want to do this?”

“From behind,” Sam says. He’s given it some thought in the last few minutes. 

Steve slides their hands down and cups his ass appreciatively. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Oh.” Sam realizes his mistake. “No, I— not anal. I can’t do anal, I don’t— it doesn’t do anything for me. I meant—” He gestures awkwardly at the tangle of his open pants, the part of his body that he usually just thinks of as _ the front. _“But with you behind me.”

“Oh,” Steve echoes. “Okay. You sure?”

Sam nods. “I want to.”

“Okay,” says Steve again. Their gaze slips down again, and they half-smile. “So, are you gonna take your pants off, or…?”

“Right,” says Sam. “Sorry.” 

His cheeks are burning with embarrassment as he pushes himself up, but Steve comes up with him, until they’re both on their knees on the bed. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” they murmur, ducking close to kiss Sam’s neck. “No rush, no pressure. Okay?”

Sam nods, though Steve’s kindness makes him feel even more embarrassed. He kind of regrets letting Steve make him come so soon. If he was as turned on as Steve was right now, he probably wouldn’t be thinking this much and ruining it.

Steve nudges Sam’s chin up and kisses his mouth. It’s easy and smooth and familiar — if he didn’t know better, he’d think that he and Steve had been kissing a lot longer than just tonight. Sam tries to turn his brain off and focus on the moment — the way that the dip in the mattress is pulling Steve closer to him, the way that Steve’s tongue tastes when it slips between his lips, the way that Steve’s hand is warm and steady hand on his hip. After a moment he starts to relax, and manages to slide his pants down a few inches. 

Steve’s hands move then, and soon they’re kneading his ass again, this time with no layers between them. Steve hums with approval at the skin-to-skin contact, and Sam does, too. The touch relaxes him, grounds him; his body knows that good things come from this touch, and for once, his brain listens to it and shuts the hell up.

Soon Sam’s pants are crumpled in a heap around his knees, and he has to stand up to take them down the rest of the way. Steve’s eyes dart down once he’s finally fully naked, and Sam watches their pupils expand with desire. It’s a rush — Sam’s reminded of the first look that Steve gave him in the club, and how it felt to be looked at, to be wanted. 

That feeling’s got nothing on this.

He steps out of his jeans and hands Steve the lube. He doesn’t want to wait anymore, and, despite Steve saying there was no pressure, one look at their body tells Sam that they can’t wait much longer, either. Sure enough, Steve grins and opens the bottle at once.

Sam ends up on his back with Steve above him, kissing his neck again while they cautiously finger him. It’s strange and mildly uncomfortable at first — Sam’s definitely out of practice, and the position brings back some not-so-pleasant memories of trying to have sex as a girl — but Steve’s thumb nudges his dick, and it starts to get easy. Steve’s fingers slide in smoothly, while their tongue flicks at his earlobe. Sam’s hands grip Steve’s bony hips while their fingers twist just enough for him to notice. 

“That’s good,” he says, because it is. He feels wet and open, wanting more. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Really?” says Steve into his skin. Their fingers slide out and stroke Sam’s dick the way they had earlier. Sam gasps and twitches — he’s sensitive from having come, but it’s good, it’s amazingly good. 

“Yeah,” he tells Steve, shoving himself up because he wants to know how much better it can get. “Yeah, fuck me, come on.”

Steve doesn’t have a snappy comeback, there’s just the crinkle of the condom wrapper while Sam gets on his hands and knees. A minute later, Steve’s cock is at his opening, hard and hot like a firebrand.

Sam lowers himself to his forearms to grant Steve better access. Steve groans in appreciation as they slide in — right to the hilt with one push. 

“God,” Sam has to say, because it’s been years since he had someone inside him, and he forgot what it felt like. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. They exhale — Sam can feel the movement of air on his back — and then they start to move, slow at first, but picking up speed quickly. They’re so turned on, Sam thinks, he shouldn’t have taken that long to get naked, because Steve clearly needs—

Steve’s fingers find his dick again, and Sam’s train of thought doesn’t crash so much as it disappears right off the rails. Twitching with sensitivity, Sam grabs Steve’s hand, thinking to take it away, but the glancing touch of his own fingers feels nice. He almost never has anything inside him while he jerks off, and there’s definitely never another hand here. 

He starts moving with Steve instead, the tangle of sensation keeping him guessing. He can feel himself clenching around Steve, squeezing their cock inside, to the point that when Steve’s thrusts pull back, Sam’s body doesn’t seem to want to let go. 

He hears Steve react to the pressure — “Oh, fuck, _ Sam,” _ — and that’s so hot that Sam might just burst into flames. 

He keeps touching himself as Steve moves inside him in long, sure strokes. Sam’s body is reacting, to his own surprise. He’s pushed through the sensitivity, and he thinks that maybe he can come again.

Steve kisses his spine, and Sam _ knows _ he can come again. He just has to get it right— 

“Right there,” he says, his voice startlingly loud. “Right there, oh, God—”

He cries out, he can’t help it, the sound tears out of him as the orgasm crests— intense and agonizingly wonderful, it lasts and lasts until he doesn’t recognize himself— who knew that he could feel this good? Time stops, there’s just this moment, this shaking, this surprising bliss, and _ Steve. _

They’re fucking him hard now, erratic and pounding, because Sam is so tight and pulsating around them. Steve grunts with the effort — a few more thrusts and they stop, everything taut with tension, their legs quivering with the strain — then they exhale and relax, panting as though they’ve run a mile. 

Sam hangs his head — drained, boneless, drifting. Eventually, he realizes that Steve’s slick hand is on his thigh. Sam reaches down and squeezes it. 

“Mmmph,” says Steve, which is more vocabulary than Sam can muster right now. 

They rock in and out a couple more times, Sam riding their aftershocks as much as his own. When they pull out, Sam winces — because he’s still tight, and the angle is a bit awkward. He rolls over, watches Steve take off the condom and wrap it in a tissue. 

“Garbage is in the corner,” Sam tells them as they get to their feet. 

“Thanks,” Steve replies, tossing it. “Bathroom down the hall?” 

“There’s one attached,” Sam tells him, pointing to the door. Steve nods and goes.

While they’re gone, Sam lies on his back on the bed, floating on the endorphins. From a distance, he thinks about how he should probably get up and shower, or at least pee, but he’s too comfy. 

When he hears the water running in the bathroom, he rallies enough to fluff the spare pillow for Steve. He gets under the blankets on the right side of the bed, rather than his usual centered sprawl.

Steve opens the bathroom door and smiles at the sight, but they don’t climb in. Instead, they go to the end of the bed. Sam doesn’t think anything of it until he hears the jingle of their belt buckle.

He sits up. “What are you doing?” he asks. 

Steve’s got their shirt on and their pants in their hand. “I figured you’d want to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, uncomprehending. “Don’t you want that, too?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, so I’m gonna go.”

“No, you’re not,” Sam says, before he realizes how rude that sounds. “Uh, sorry,” he adds. “I just meant, I’m good with you sleeping here. If you want to.”

Steve seems to hesitate, looking at the empty space beside him. 

“I don’t know what the protocol is in these situations,” Sam goes on honestly. “It’s been five years since I’ve had sex and even longer since I hooked up with somebody from a bar, so—”

He stops talking abruptly, because Steve is staring at him. He just revealed way too much information. Damn post-coital brain, giving him no filter.

“My point is,” he concludes, his face burning, “you don’t have to rush out. If you want to go, that’s cool, I get it. But I’d like it if you could stay.”

Steve nods and sets their pants back down, slowly. “I’d like that, too,” they say.

Sam smiles and turns back the covers. “Then get over here.”

Steve laughs and goes, sliding under the blankets and, hesitantly, into Sam’s space. Sam pulls them near and gives them a kiss that’s supposed to quick, but it lingers. Steve relaxes into it, and Sam does, too. 

Fatigue starts to catch up with him after a few minutes. Soon it’s too tiring even to move his lips. Sam pulls back, bringing his hand up from Steve’s hip to run his fingers through their hair.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Steve gives him a quizzical look. “For what?”

Sam shrugs. It’s too hard to explain, and he’s much too tired to try. If he could, he’d tell Steve that he was thanking them for reminding him what it feels like to be at peace. To experience something beautiful within himself and with another person that he’d thought was lost. Like there was something inside that was stopped up, or frozen, or just plain dead, and now it’s free and breathing easy again. 

But he can’t say all that, so he shakes his head, gives Steve another kiss, and turns out the light.


	3. Chapter 3

Something wakes Sam up. He has one second of calm before he recognizes the sound he just heard, and then he’s out of bed, flying to the window in less time than it normally takes him to roll over. 

“Shit,” he says. He looks at the clock, then back out the window at his sister’s SUV in the driveway. “Shit!”

“What?” Steve says blearily. Their eyes are barely open, but they’re struggling to sit up. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to go,” Sam tells them. He scans the room, locates last night’s pants and underwear. They stink like a bar and… other things, but he pulls them on anyway. 

“Okay,” says Steve. They disentangle themselves from the sheets and stand up, going for their jeans, too. “What’s going on?”

“They can’t— you can’t be here,” Sam manages to say. He throws his shirt on. “Not when my kid—”

Outside, a car door slams. Sam looks down again, dismayed. Sarah and Elise are getting something out of the backseat. 

He turns back to find Steve dressed behind him. Their eyeliner is smudged, and their hair is a rumpled pile on top of their head. It’s kind of cute.

“I’m sorry,” Sam tells them honestly. “I—”

This isn’t how he wanted to do this. He wasn’t lying last night, when he said he didn’t know the protocol. He’d hoped that they would have had a little longer to figure it out before they had to say goodbye. In fact, Sam had kinda been hoping they’d have time for a little round two this morning — he really wanted to suck Steve off — but they slept in, and Sarah is early. 

“Hey,” says Steve, stepping forward. “It’s okay, I get it. I’ll go.”

“Okay,” Sam repeats numbly. _ Is this the last time I’ll see you? _ he wants to ask, but he can’t get the words out.

Steve takes another step forward and their lips find his — quick and light, reassuring. “I put my number in your phone last night,” they say. “Call me?”

Relief pours into Sam, starting with the places that he and Steve are touching. “Okay,” he says. “I will.” 

Steve smiles and heads for the door. Sam can tell they’re trying to clean up their makeup as they go. He wishes they had time for a shower.

Sam follows, and they part ways at the foot of the stairs. “Out through the kitchen,” Sam says, pointing to the patio door. “There’s a gate in the back part of the fence.” 

Making Steve rush out the door like a dirty secret just doesn’t seem right, not when Steve had been so sweet, so good to him last night. But his kid is here, his sister— it’s for the best. 

Steve nods, kisses him one more time, and goes, just as someone knocks the rhythm of “Shave and a Haircut” on the front door. 

Sam takes a second to regain his composure, and runs his hands down his wrinkled clothes, hoping he looks okay. Then he knocks the last two beats on the back of the door, and opens it to find Elise on her tiptoes, clearly just trying to looking through the peephole. 

“Daddy!” she exclaims. 

“Hey, ladybug,” Sam greets her. He wraps her up in a hug and lifts her off her feet. She giggles like she always does.

He sets her back down gently and makes to go into the house, but Elise waves him outside instead. “We’ve got a surprise for you,” she tells him. 

“You do?” Sam says, eyeing his sister’s vehicle a little apprehensively. He really hopes his parents aren’t here. “Where’s Aunt Sarah?”

“She’s in the backyard,” Elise announces. She hops down off the porch, but turns back, because Sam has stopped moving, stopped breathing. 

“Come on,” she says. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sam forces himself to say, and he pushes his feet into motion. Maybe Steve got out before Sarah got to the backyard. Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe—

None of Sam’s hypothetical scenarios prepare him for the sight of Sarah, standing on the other side of the gate with her arms crossed and Steve at her side, looking guilty and messy as fuck under the bright sun.

“Good morning, Sam,” Sarah says. The corners of her mouth are twitching. “I met your friend.”

Sam meets Steve’s eyes quickly. _ What did you tell her? _ he wants to ask. “Uh huh,” he says instead, cautiously.

“Care to introduce us?” his sister asks. She knows, she totally knows — even a blind person could look at Sam and Steve and know what they were doing last night.

“Sarah, Elise, this is my friend Steve,” Sam says, his heart hammering in his throat. “Steve, this is my sister, Sarah, and my daughter, Elise.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” Elise says brightly, because if there’s one thing that Sam’s kid is not, it’s shy. She steps forward and offers her hand like a little grown-up.

Steve smiles and shakes it seriously. “Nice to meet you too, Elise,” they say. “I heard you spent the weekend with Aunt Sarah. Did you have fun?”

“So much fun,” Elise says. “We went to the museum, and I saw a mummy!”

“A mummy,” Sam repeats, surprised. He glances at his sister, who grimaces and nods. 

“Quite a few, actually,” she says.

Sam chuckles. God bless his sister, who’s afraid of dead bodies, for taking his wannabe-archaeologist kid to do something she’d really enjoy. “That sounds awesome,” he says.

“It was so awesome,” Elise agrees. “There was this one that they found in a bog, in England or Germany or something, and his eyes were closed, and he looked just like he was sleeping. But then, they did a test, and they found out he died in _ 400BC _ . They think he was _ sacrificed, _ isn’t that cool?” 

“It’s pretty cool,” says Sam. His sister, meanwhile, shudders. “You said you had a surprise for me?” he adds, changing the subject before Elise can get started again. 

“Oh yeah,” says Elise. “We brought you breakfast!”

Sam looks past Sarah and Steve for the first time and realizes that his patio table is laden with foil-topped containers. Now that he thinks about it, he has been smelling bacon for the last several minutes. 

“Wow,” he says. “You made all this for me?”

“Uh huh,” says Elise.

“I helped,” Sarah says modestly.

“Happy birthday, Daddy!” Elise exclaims, wrapping herself around Sam’s legs. 

Sam pats her hair. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Steve cocks their head at Sam. “It’s your birthday?”

“Yesterday,” Sam mutters, embarrassed. 

“Thought you would have known that,” says Sarah, turning around to busy herself with the food. “Seeing as you’re _ friends _ and all.”

Steve’s cheeks go bright pink, but Sam just shakes his head. He knows that Sarah doesn’t mean any harm. 

“Is your friend gonna stay, Dad?” Elise asks. “We brought lots of food.”

“That’s up to them,” Sam answers. He gives Steve a cautious smile. “You’re welcome to have breakfast with us,” he adds. He shrugs, keeping it casual. “If you eat that kind of thing.”

Steve glances at Sarah and Elise quickly. “Um,” they say.

“Tell you what,” Sarah interjects, still not looking up. “I didn’t bring any coffee, since Sam’s got that fancy machine. I’ll make us some, you two talk it over and decide.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at Steve, asking the question. After a second, they nod. 

“You can freshen up at the same time,” Sarah adds. “Your breath could kill an ox at twelve paces, Sam.”

“Thanks, sis,” says Sam, while Elise giggles. 

“You do kinda stink, Daddy,” she says.

“Everybody’s always picking on me,” Sam fake-grumbles, heading to the sliding door. “On my birthday, too.”

“That was yesterday, Sam,” Steve reminds him.

He hears Sarah laugh behind them. “I like you, Steve,” she calls.

Sam shuts the door and leads Steve into the house. “You don’t actually have to stay,” he says more seriously. “I know this isn’t exactly what you signed on for.”

But Steve doesn’t take the out that Sam is offering. “I want to,” they say. Their hand finds his, and their fingers interlace. “If you want me to.”

Sam’s heart trips over itself the same way it had the first time he saw Steve last night. “I’m good with that.”

Steve smiles, bright and easy for the first time since they woke up — which, granted, wasn’t that long ago. “I love breakfast,” they say, “and your sister seems like a really good cook.”

“Oh, she is,” Sam says honestly. “And you should definitely tell her that.”

They’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, and they both pause. Sam realizes that they were in the exact same position almost twelve hours ago. Steve seems to be thinking the same thing, because they glance up the stairs and then kiss him, quick again.

They sniff the air as they separate. “Kill an ox at twelve paces, huh,” they say. 

Sam laughs and shoves them away. 

Fifteen minutes later, his teeth are brushed and he’s wearing clean clothes. He would have liked to have had a shower — and he’s not too proud to admit that he wishes that Steve could join him for one — but he feels better. Steve, meanwhile, washes off the last traces of their makeup and puts their hair in some semblance of order. Sam loans them a clean shirt, too, one that got too small when he started going to the gym more often. 

Sarah eyes it when they come into the kitchen again. Sam suddenly remembers that she was the one who gave it to him a year ago. His cheeks burn, but he gets three mugs down from the cupboard anyway. On the other side of the patio door, Elise is on the swing in the backyard. 

“So,” Sarah says, pouring the coffee. “How hungover are we?”

“Not too bad, actually,” says Sam honestly. “I didn’t drink that much.”

“And how about you, Steve?” Sarah asks when she hands them a mug.

“I didn’t drink at all,” Steve answers. Sam glances at them in surprise, and they shrug. “Medication,” is all they say.

Sam plays back the evening in his head. He saw Steve with a drink at the bar — something that he assumed was a gin and tonic, but it must have just been sparkling water with lime.

“Oh, good,” says Sarah. “I was worried about coming here so early, but Elise wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, it worked,” Sam says. “I was surprised.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sarah retorts. She glances at Steve again before opening the sliding door. “Next time I’ll call first.”

Sam laughs, following her. He gestures for Steve to go out the door before him, and together they head to the table. 

Elise jumps off the swing and hurries over. “Is it time to eat?”

“Yep, we’re ready,” Sam tells her. They sit — Steve hesitates a moment before taking the only place left, which is at Sam’s right hand.

Sam serves Elise first, then the adults start passing the dishes around. There’s waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh-cut fruit — Sarah really outdid herself. 

“This looks great,” he starts to say, but Steve cuts him off. 

“This looks amazing,” they say. “Thank you.”

Sarah blinks. “You’re welcome,” she replies after a beat, smoothing over the slightly awkward moment. “I’m just glad to see my brother took my advice for once.”

Steve looks at Sam, confused. “She told me to have fun,” he explains in a low voice.

Steve’s expression doesn’t clear. They turn their head they way they’ve done before, getting their right ear closer to Sam. “Say again?”

Sam realizes that Steve must be a little hard of hearing, and instantly feels bad for not noticing sooner. “Sorry,” he says, a little louder and clearer. “I just said Sarah told me to have fun last night.”

“Oh,” says Steve with a laugh. They seem to notice that Sarah noticed this interaction, and they shrug like they did in the kitchen, like they’re trying to make themself smaller and less obtrusive. “That’s what I get for not wearing my hearing aid.”

“Well, it was so loud in the club,” Sam remarks, touching Steve’s leg under the table, trying to tell them they don’t have to be embarrassed. “If I had hearing aids, I probably wouldn’t wear them either.”

“There’s a girl in my class who’s deaf,” Elise pipes up. “She uses sign language and she taught me this.” 

She pats her chest twice, taps the first two fingers of her hands together twice, then finger-spells her name — she’s shown this to Sam many times. Steve smiles and salutes, then does the same gestures back, only spelling different letters, obviously. They do more after that, sliding their hands together and pointing at Elise, but Elise shakes her head. 

“I don’t know that word,” she says sadly. “I just started learning when school got back.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve tells her with a smile. “You’ll learn.”

Sarah waits until Steve’s taken a few bites and complimented her food before she asks, “What do you do, Steve?”

She isn’t fooling Sam with that casual tone. She’s grilling Steve, to make sure they’re good enough for her baby brother. Sam wishes she wouldn’t, but he also knows that trying to stop her would be like asking the sun to sleep in one day. 

“I work at a museum,” Steve answers, “giving tours in ASL.”

“Wow,” says Sarah, but Elise’s eyes have lit up at the M-word.

“What museum?” she demands. “Do you have mummies? Or dinosaurs?”

Steve laughs. “No mummies,” they reply. “It’s an art museum. But sometimes I go other places and give tours, if they don’t have anybody else.”

Elise doesn’t look impressed. She goes back to her waffle. 

“So you’re a freelance interpreter?” Sarah asks.

“Sort of,” Steve answers. “My main contract is with the art gallery, but I pick up other gigs here and there.”

“And did you do that in DC, too?” Sam asks. 

Steve shakes their head. “No,” they say with a slight laugh. “I was an interpreter on Capitol Hill, but it got way too stressful after a while. And at the art museums I can be myself more.”

Sam blinks, trying to picture the genderqueer punk beside him in a neat suit and tie. The image just doesn’t fit, and he understands why Steve came back to New York after that. Sarah, meanwhile, is staring at Steve outright. Steve shies away from the attention, reaching for their coffee.

“What about you?” they ask Sam. 

Sam launches into his story, how he wanted to join the military as a medic, but changed gears to social work when he realized how hard it would be to be himself there — Steve nods in complete understanding. 

“Now I work at a hospital,” Sam concludes. “I provide counselling for terminally ill patients and their families.” 

Steve doesn’t make the face — part pity, part awe, part _ why-the-hell-would-you-do-that? _— that Sam is used to seeing when he tells someone this. Instead, they smile gently.

“That sounds incredibly rewarding,” they say. 

“It can be,” Sam replies. “It’s draining, though.”

“I bet,” says Steve.

“But he’s good at it,” Sarah puts in proudly. “Best in the biz.”

Sam smiles and looks away modestly. He lifts his fork to his mouth and enjoys Sarah’s waffles instead. 

In the slight pause that follows, Elise looks up. “You fixed your makeup,” she says to Steve.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve replies, clearly startled. “Does it look okay?”

“Yep,” says Elise with a nod. “Dad won’t let me wear makeup yet.”

Steve hums sympathetically but doesn’t say anything. Sam appreciates that, because if Elise thinks a grown-up is on her side about this, she’ll never give Sam a moment’s peace.

“Why do you wear makeup if you’re not a girl?” Elise asks bluntly.

Sarah gasps quietly. “Elise,” Sam scolds. 

But Steve remains casual, chewing and swallowing before answering. “I like to wear makeup because it makes me feel good,” they say eventually.

Elise seems to think this over. “So, it doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or not, you can wear makeup?”

“Anybody who wants to can wear makeup,” Steve affirms. Then they glance quickly at Sam and add, “Uh, once your parents say you’re old enough.”

Elise sighs. “Dad says I have to be _ thirteen. _ That’s another five years.”

“I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup until I was seventeen,” Steve tells her. “So, you’ve got it pretty good if you ask me.”

Elise’s eyes widen. “Seventeen? But that’s almost old enough to vote!”

Steve nods. “Yep. Old enough to move out on my own, too.” 

Sam watches Steve take another sip of coffee and wonders if this is part of the orthodontist father story they mentioned last night. Maybe, if Steve wants to see him again after this, he’ll have a chance to find out.

“Did you know that my dad is my mom, too?” Elise asks, matter-of-fact.

“Elise,” Sarah hisses, outraged.

“It’s okay, Sarah,” Sam murmurs. He’s always tried to be frank with his daughter about his gender identity, and he’s not going to change that now. It’s not a secret, especially not to people he’s close to — and he’s feeling pretty damn close to Steve right now.

“I did know that,” Steve answers, looking over at Sam fondly. “I think it’s pretty cool.”

Elise beams at Steve. “It’s so cool,” she says. “Nobody else has a dad like me.”

Sam has to clear his throat then, because he’s surprisingly choked up all of the sudden. Sarah changes the subject again, this time to their second cousin Louise and her financial trouble. Sam gets the impression it’s the first non-gender-related topic she can think of.

Only after they’ve eaten does it occur to Sam that maybe Elise was grilling Steve just as much as Sarah was, testing them to make sure they knew that her dad was pretty special. He hopes that Steve passed. 

The three of them clear the table and wash the dishes. While Steve loads up Sarah’s car with the empty coolers, Sam makes more coffee. He thinks that Sarah will stay a little longer, but she takes her keys out of her purse instead. 

“I should get going,” she says. She crouches down and gives Elise a big hug. “I’ll see you later, ladybug.”

“Bye, Aunt Sarah,” says Elise, letting go. Sam nudges her gently, and she adds, “Thank you for letting me stay with you this weekend.”

“Any time, kiddo,” says Sarah. She glances at Sam. “I’m glad we had such a nice time.”

Sam knows what she means by that look, and he’s embarrassed again.

“Really nice to meet you,” Steve says, offering their hand, but Sarah shakes her head and pulls them into a quick hug, too. 

“This is part where I tell you that if you hurt my brother, I’m coming after you,” she says. “But somehow I think you already know that.”

Steve nods. “Understood,” they say. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Sam glances at Steve with some surprise. They’ve known each other for less than a day, Steve doesn’t owe Sarah — or Sam, for that matter — an answer like that. Sam wonders if maybe they’re just being charming, but when he catches their eye, they seem perfectly sincere.

“Bye, Sam,” says Sarah, hugging him last. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Sam says. “And thank you for breakfast, you really didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Sarah replies. “I’ve tasted your cooking, and trust me, don’t cook for Steve for a while,” she adds in Sam’s ear. “Best wait at least a few dates to deliver that bad news.”

Sam laughs and lets go. “Okay, okay,” he says, surrendering. 

Sarah climbs into her car and backs out of the driveway. On the street, she beeps the horn and waves. Elise waves enthusiastically back and then asks Sam if she can watch the Discovery Kids’ channel. 

“Sure,” Sam tells her. “Just for an hour, though, because I’m sure you have math homework to do before tomorrow.”

Elise makes a face that proves Sam right, but she nods nonetheless. Sam gets her set up on the couch and heads back to the kitchen. There, he finds that Steve has poured them each a new cup of coffee.

“Sorry,” they say, misinterpreting Sam’s look of surprise. “If you’d rather I just get out of your hair—”

“No,” says Sam at once, taking the cup that Steve offers to him. Sam’s fingers feel cold in comparison to Steve’s warm hand. “No, not at all.”

Steve smiles slowly. “Okay.”

It’s startlingly domestic, the two of them drinking coffee at Sam’s kitchen island while the TV plays in the other room. Sam puts his hand on Steve’s arm, just to see how it feels, and Steve leans over and kisses him, so Sam calls that a success and keeps it there.

They chat a little bit, about the weather and the Mets, but the silence is almost nicer. Like they’re soaking in each other’s company. It reminds Sam of their dancing last night — easy, wordless, and completely in sync. 

At last, the coffee is gone, and Steve gets to their feet. “I really should be getting home,” they say. “I’ve got work tomorrow, and hopefully big plans on Wednesday night.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam stands as well. “What’s on Wednesday?”

“Well, I’m hoping I can take you to dinner,” Steve says, stepping into Sam’s space. “But I gotta admit, I’m a bit nervous about asking.”

Sam’s heart skips a beat. “I work until 8 on Wednesday,” he says. “But Thursday I’m off early, and Elise has a Girl Scout meeting from 6:30 to 9.”

Steve hums thoughtfully. Their hands are on Sam’s hips — hot on the other side of his clothes. “I think I can do Thursday,” they say, rubbing slightly. 

Sam wants nothing more than to lean into the touch, feel Steve’s skin against his again — but it’s the middle of the afternoon, and Sam’s kid is only one room away. 

Steve is looking at Sam’s body like they’re thinking the same thing — naked want conflicts with obligation on their face. 

“So,” Steve says, husky. “You wanna go out with me on Thursday night?”

“I’d love to,” Sam replies honestly. They seal the arrangement with a kiss that probably goes on too long and leaves Sam feeling overheated. He steps back fully and smiles while Steve is still licking their lips. 

“Okay,” they say. They give themself a little shake and gestures towards the front room. “I take it it’s cool if I don’t sneak out the back this time?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah. Sorry about that,” he adds. “I didn’t— I told you, I don’t do this kind of thing.”

“No big,” Steve replies. “I did put my number in your phone, though, and I do think you should call me. About Thursday.”

“I will,” Sam promises. “About Thursday.”

Steve grins and follows him to the front door — Elise says goodbye, but barely takes her eyes off the TV, which is showing her a digital model of King Tut’s tomb. Sam calls Steve a cab, and they kiss a bit more on the porch while they wait. 

The cab arrives, Steve gets in, and waves as they pull away. Sam waves back until the car is out of sight. Then he sighs, thinking of everything that’s happened — everything that’s changed in the last 24 hours. 

“Happy birthday,” he says to himself. “Happy, happy birthday.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song of the same name by [Smokey Robinson and the Miracles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZ51U2GaKgQ). I could quote the lyrics and explain their relevance, but it would just turn into me writing out the entire song and squeeing endlessly. You'd be better off just to click that link and give it a listen!
> 
> Find me on (sigh) Tumblr as mrsd-writes, the Sam Wilson Discord and Dreamwidth as mrs_d, and on Twitter as mrsd_writes.


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